


Smoke

by chronicAngel



Series: Earth-107 [4]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Jason Todd is Robin, POV Third Person, Prompt Fic, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicAngel/pseuds/chronicAngel
Summary: Prompt: Jason, while in Robin uniform, attempts to bum a smoke off Jim Gordon.  :)





	Smoke

The sky in Gotham is the same inky black that it always is this late at night, and the bright stars that reflect off of the wide eyes of amazed children who stare at the night sky as they try to stay up past bed time in other cities are hidden by grey clouds of smog that only make the sky Gotham does have look darker. It feels more fitting than a clear sky would, Jason thinks, taking a deep breath of the air. It's cold, biting almost, enough that it drags his mind sharply back into reality and makes him look around the street at least ten feet below him from his place above them all, a place that feels more like home than mansions or rundown apartments.

Bruce has left him alone again, and he can't help but notice how much more often this has been happening recently.

He feels distinctly out of place, with the stark contrast of his red and yellow against the darkness that consumes the city, but he feels as though out of place is exactly where he belongs. He's not a happy-go-lucky optimist like Dick was before Bruce dumped him, and he's not a social chameleon who can make himself serious or lighthearted enough for any situation like Bruce is. He's just Jason, and he likes it that way.

The street below is empty, except for a single figure in a worn brown fedora that walks down the street with his back hunched as though he is buried in thought and his hands stuffed into his pockets. This is one of the figures in Gotham that he has started to recognize without having to kick their ass.

Jason spent his years on the bottom floor of a shabby apartment, rats being much better roommates than his father ever was. Gordon is a man with an atmosphere of weary optimism that lets Jason know that he has experienced, has lived, but has not struggled. They don't talk much, Jason always stuck sitting in the car and watching through the shaded windows as Bruce steps out to gather information on the latest breakout that makes him wish they could just shut down that stupid revolving door they call an asylum, but he knows that Gordon is honest, and that he's a much better father than Jason could have even thought to ask for as a child. Barbara doesn't talk about her personal life much, none of them do, but she has an air of pride when the commissioner is brought up.

The line of his grappling hook makes a zipping noise that isn't music to his ears like it seems to be for Dick and Barbara, but it does allow him to lose himself for a second as he falls through the air, cold rushing around him until he has to brace himself for the stop, directly in front of the police commissioner. He has to try not to laugh as he sees the way the man takes a step back and pulls his hands from his pockets in defensive fists. He fails. The air that was previously silent is filled with the echoing sound of the fifteen-year-old's laughter, and he sees the way Gordon's brow furrows in annoyance as he glares at the boy, which only proves to make him laugh harder. When he can straighten himself out, he lets out a sharp exhale, as if trying to force the rest of the laughter out of his chest, before giving him a straight look. "Evening, commish. Got a smoke?"

Gordon looks skeptical. His mustache twists up slightly more than the rest of his face as he seems to consider his next words carefully, before he adjusts his hat to squint at Jason through his thick glasses. "Are you old enough to smoke, young man?"

"That's classified information, commissioner. You gotta understand, I'd love to tell you, honest, but then I'd have to kill you." Gordon snorts in a way that reminds him of Batgirl, and he quirks a brow at the man. He's not actually sure he's ever been this close to Gordon in person, and he knows that he's never talked to him this much, leaving all of the talking to cops to his partner in not-quite-a-real-crime. "Seriously, you got a cigarette I can bum or not?"

Gordon heaves a sigh. It makes the corners of Jason's lips quirk as he watches him, watches him seem to struggle for another second before reaching into his pocket and digging around for a pack that, when he pulls it out, is only half full. It's crumpled a bit, like it's been in his pocket for days or even weeks and he's been fumbling with it, trying not to get into the thing; he thinks he remembers Barbara mentioning something about trying to get him to quit. He opens the pack, and pulls out a single cigarette, before handing the rest of the pack to Jason.

"I'm still not sure you're old enough to have these, but... my daughter's trying to get me to quit. Probably better that you have them than I do."

As he's about to speak, he's cut off. "Still, if I find out that I just gave cigarettes to a minor... Well, I'm actually not sure what I'll do. But you should be worried about it."

This makes Jason laugh again, and he pulls a lighter out of his utility belt to offer to the commissioner, who accepts it gratefully and mutters something about promising himself that this is his last cigarette, which he thinks they both know is a load of shit. When his own is lit, he leans against a wall, taking his glove off to hold it properly and running his still-gloved hand through his hair. Drag. Hold. Exhale. The puff of air from the cigarette is just as sharp as the clear, cold air of the rooftop, but it is sharp with the cutting heat of chemicals and the rushing relief of that first breath of nicotine.

He can't do the cool smoke tricks like rings. He can't even really do basic things like blowing the smoke out through his nose without feeling as though he has just snorted chlorinated water and burning the back of his throat. But he can sit there, smoking the regular way and leaning against a wall while the police commissioner stands across from him looking tired even with each puff he takes. "Something on your mind, commissioner?" As though he has only just been pulled out of a daze, he blinks at Jason, taking a drag for a long second before actually answering.

"Just thinking about this..." He stares up at the smog where stars should be, and Jason stares at the way the dark grey clouds reflect off of his glasses as if the thick lenses are two small skies of their own. He almost thinks, for a second, that the man is referring to the sky, to the way that stars are stripped of their light and the moon hides behind curtains like the pale body of a bathing woman. But after a second, he thinks he sees a deeper meaning in those blue eyes and it sparks a curiosity in him that most things don't manage to do anymore. "One second, I'm walking home with a battered, four-day old pack of cigarettes in my pocket and no clue what to do with it, the next, I'm having a cigarette with the Boy Wonder. Barbara would probably laugh at me." _Barbara probably would,_ Jason thinks, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he lets Gordon continue to ramble. He doesn't have to say anything for a long minute, until Gordon asks that infernal question, "Say, where's the Batman? He doesn't have a pack he can loan you?"

"We're not glued at the hip, y'know. And Br-- Batman doesn't smoke." It's a stupid slip up, but one that he still feels the need to berate himself for, though if Gordon noticed, he doesn't say anything as he just nods respectfully and drops his finished smoke to the ground to stomp it out with his shoe. In contrast, Jason lights his second one, taking a drag and resting a hand over his grappling hook.

Gordon looks him in the eyes, or, more accurately, the mask, and he feels like he's being searched for something. It makes him feel sort of uncomfortable. "Yeah, you're not. It just seems like you bat kids always seem to get into trouble when you're left to your own devices. You seem like a good kid. I'd hate for something to happen to you."

He's left staring at the receding back of the man as he walks away, his grey hair poking out from underneath the lip of the fedora as he walks away, and the clouds of smog make way for clouds of a lighter grey as rain begins to pour around him. He doesn't actually know where Bruce is. The truth is, he wasn't supposed to be out tonight at all, he was supposed to be back at the manor studying while Alfred made cookies or tea or did whatever other mundane thing it is that Alfred does. The fact of the matter is that he doesn't really _care_ anymore, and he hates being holed up in the manor more than he hated having to struggle to survive by stealing the tires of cars left in alleys for too long before sneaking back to the derelict apartment he called home. He gets the feeling that Jim would understand that better than Bruce would.


End file.
